


Begged and Borrowed Time

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/F, Heartache, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: He knew the answer even if Jack couldn’t bring himself to say it. All their stolen moments, their begged and borrowed time, was worthless.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Jack Rollins, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Begged and Borrowed Time

Brock thought he understood that he’d have to share Jack. That love like theirs was something meant to be kept to the shadows. And he was okay with it. At first. 

Jack was the All-American family man. He worked a 9 to 5, coached the little league team his son was on and was always at the top of school fundraiser sign up sheets. Jack was involved, he was loving, and to be loved by him was something incomparable. He had a way about him, the ability to make those receiving his attention feel like they were the only person in the world. It was a feeling Brock had never experienced before; Jack was a lover like no other. But the price of having him was knowing that he didn’t. Jack “My family always comes first” Rollins was a drug. Dangerously addictive but the high was too good to pass up. In the beginning a hit every week was enough. But the longer he was with him, the more times he felt Jack’s intimate touch, the harder it was to watch him leave. Sometimes in those moments of agony he wondered if Jack’s husband and if he did, how he coped. 

He couldn’t talk to his friends about it. They made their opinions on Brock seeing a married man clear and while they didn’t fault him openly Brock knew they did so privately. Brock didn’t see himself as the bad guy in the situation; he was a victim. Jack was unlike any other man on Earth and how was he supposed to resist his charms when they ran into each other at a hotel bar. Brock had been flooded out of his apartment and Jack was on a business trip. When he closed his eyes he was there again, the lights above the bar reflecting off the glasses lined up. The quiet murmur of the lobby and the barstool he was sitting at. 

And then he could see Jack coming to sit beside him, setting a briefcase down with a soft sigh of exhaustion and exasperation. Brock had looked over on habit, not expecting anything to come from it. All it took was that one look, a brief exchange of eye contact, and Brock was snared by him and his pine green eyes. He was powerless against his desires. He knew the moment he met his eyes that he would be his undoing. And now he was nothing but undone. 

Usually Brock could talk himself off the ledge when he sat in his apartment, crying, cradling his cellphone to his chest because it was the only connection to Jack but Jack had cut him off. “There’s a time and a place,” he always said firmly. In the beginning Brock could last days on one text alone. Now each hour was tormenting him. When he blinked he saw Jack ravishing a body that wasn’t his. He could hear him saying those three little words he ached to hear said to another. It was his own personal Hell and he had to live in it every day. He couldn’t fault Jack for it as much as he wished he could. How easy it would be to paint Jack as the villain and he the one victimized by his devilishly good looks and charm. 

Brock shifted between anguish and fury; a constant cycling of self loathing and resentment towards a man he had never met. Yet. He had every intention of seeing what the man who had everything he could only covet. And that was why he was sitting in the middle of suburbs in his car, parking in front of a single family detached home with shed dormers and a flourishing garden. It was white and tan and everything that Brock only dreamed of sharing with Jack. There was a yard and white picket fence and a car in the driveway. He didn’t have to stake out long before the front door opened and a blond man came out. He was handsome and it felt like Brock’s heart had been ripped out. He wasn’t ugly in the slightest, in fact he was quite good looking. The blond, Clint, was pulling on gardening gloves and had a pair of pruning shears in hand. Brock watched with silent tears running down his cheeks as preened the privacy hedges and stuff the clipping into a black bag. He left the fenced area and walked to the trash bins at the end of the driveway. He stuffed them in and went back inside. Brock shifted from park into drive and drove home. 

If Brock had even an ounce of self-preservation he would have taken that day as a revelation, an eye-opener that Jack wasn’t the pinnacle of perfection that he appeared to be. He would have emphasized with the unaware husband who had no idea his husband had strayed. He should have at least cut things off. But he was too wrapped up in Jack. He was drowning in him and he was too far from the surface to even bother fighting it. Going forward he tried to accept the imperfect relationship they shared, reminding himself that something was better than nothing. But that was just a salve to wound that would keep reopening forever when Jack left. Brock would hemorrhage blood when he was alone and await Jack’s presence because he was the only one who could sew up the gaping hole in his heart. 

Brock tried to lose himself at the gym. When he was sweating and the only thing he had to focus on was gasping for his next breath he found some semblance of freedom from Jack. It was a brief reprieve but Brock needed it for the sake of his own sanity. As badly as he wished he had someone to confide in he knew his friends wouldn’t be very supportive, even if they would try. In a way Brock deserved this suffering; had he turned away when Jack gave the terms of their relationship after the first time they had sex he would have been free. He would have been happy. He wouldn’t be sitting on the floor of his kitchen, hugging his knees and staring at the phone lying on the linoleum in front of him, aching, begging, pleading to a God he’d scorned by his own actions that Jack would text him back. 

It was almost one am when he did. Brock’s ‘I miss you’ was met with ‘I told you not to text me during the day’. Sometimes Brock thought that Jack didn’t truly love him the way he said he did when they were wrapped up in each other. It seemed that whenever they were fucking Jack was merely tolerating him. But Brock was young, he was only twenty and that brought with it inexperience that was probably maddening for Jack who was older and wiser than he was. Maybe he wasn’t crying because it cut him so deeply that Jack probably hadn’t missed him even a fraction of the amount that Brock missed him. Maybe it was his youthful emotionalism. That was an easier pill to swallow so he settled on that. He crawled to his room and curled up in the middle of his bed, so very, very alone. 

** ** ** **

“Why are you moping?” 

Brock looked up from his coffee. Bucky had been scrolling through his phone but he had stopped and was looking at him, taking a bite of his danish. “I’m not.” 

Bucky rolled his leaden blue eyes and set the danish on the plate. “I know you, Brock. I know when you’re pouting or not.” 

“I’m not pouting.” Brock was a bit offended that his emotional turmoil was being reduced to something so petty and excusable. How he felt about Jack was nothing close to petty. “I’m just dealing with some shit.” 

“You’re supposed to talk about the shit you’re dealing with with your friends,” Bucky reminded him. “C’mon, maybe I can help.” 

“You can’t,” Brock said bitterly. How was he supposed to convey in words how Jack had fractured and shattered him into tiny bits of pain and little more. “It’s complicated.” 

“Not to brag but I’m pretty smart. Complicated is my forte.” 

Brock sighed heavily. “It’s Jack.” 

“You’re still seeing him?” It was accustory and Brock regretted even bringing it up. “He’s married, Brock.” 

“I know,” Brock hissed, gouged by the truth in his statement. 

“Then you know that you should tell him to fuck off.” Bucky replied but Bucky didn’t know Jack. Hadn’t felt him kiss him, hadn’t been cradled in his arms. He didn’t understand. No one could. “You’re not a homewrecker. You know better.” 

A homewrecker. Brock cringed at the ugly truth of the word. Bucky wasn’t as smart as he thought he was because Brock was a homewrecker. And he didn’t carry any ounce of guilt about it. All he could think about was Jack and his greed for his attention. He wanted to be the one pruning hedges at his house. To share his bed with no shame. No need to hide away like it was a filthy secret. “I’d rather talk about something else.” 

Bucky frowned at him but he complied and shifted the conversation to Steve’s gallery opening tomorrow night. “You are coming right?” 

It wasn’t a Jack night so he nodded his head. Maybe the distraction would alleviate some of his torment. “Of course.” 

“Good, Steve will be happy.” Bucky took another bite of his danish and returned the previous conversation unbidden. “I just think you’d be a lot happier if you stopped seeing him. You’re beating yourself up over some asshole that doesn’t deserve you.” 

Brock flinched and took a drink of his coffee as he fought back the vehement statements that threatened to slip off his tongue. Bucky didn’t understand, he reminded himself. Bucky had no idea what it was like to be caressed by Jack’s hands, to be laid down tenderly and made love to. He didn’t understand that what he was asking was impossible. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he finally said, an edge to his voice that he didn’t intend but was grateful for. 

“Fine,” Bucky said but he didn’t look pleased.

“Thank you.” 

** ** ** ** 

The gallery was well packed. Brock had dressed up for the affair and was glad he had. It was much bigger than his last one. Steve was up and coming in the New York art world and that was apparent by the prices resting beside each piece. Brock never had an eye for art but he knew that the hyper realistic paintings were impressive. He ran into Natasha first, the redhead wearing a black slip dress with a pair of red bottoms, a diamond princess necklace and a pair of diamond pendant earrings. She ghosted a kiss on Brock’s cheeks and her girlfriend came over from looking at a city line painting. She was in an emerald green A-line dress, red hair pinned back from his face. 

“Wanda,” Brock greeted the shorter woman and she smiled. 

“Hi Brock. It’s good to see you,” she sidled closer to Natasha. She was new to their world, a waitress at a small diner on Staten Island. Art galleries were a new world for her. It was a new world for Brock, too. “Steve has made some incredible pieces. Did you see the one of their dog?” 

“Not yet, I just got here.” 

Natasha put an arm around her. “What have you been up to?” 

“Work.” 

“You look great and awful all at once.” Natasha said, blunt as ever. 

“Thank you?” 

“I mean you’re in fantastic shape but you look miserable,” she clarified. “Work troubles?” 

“Something like that.” 

It wasn’t that being a construction foreman was particularly stressful. It was physical work and he liked that. It was a good distraction from the problem of Jack. Just thinking his name sent pangs of sadness through him. He wondered what he was doing. Surely at this hour he would have been eating dinner. He imagined a table, not too big, not too small, Jack sitting at the head, his faceless son on his right, his handsome husband to his left. A pinnacle family moment. Jack was probably happy, content. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. 

“Well I think you look great,” Wanda said with a small frown. 

“Thanks Wanda.” Brock looked around the milling bodies for Steve. He expected he would be surrounded by a gaggle of prospective buyers, showered in praise. Brock wondered what Jack thought about art. He’d have to ask him tomorrow night. “I’m going to see if I can find Steve. Let him know I showed.” 

“We’ll be here,” Natasha said and Wanda nodded her head. 

Brock made his rounds and found him in front of a painting of a pond scene, surrounded, as expected. Bucky was off to the side, beaming and radiating pride in his fiance. He wasn’t the person that Brock really wanted to see but Bucky caught sight of him and started over. Brock forced a smile and tried to come across relaxed. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey.” Bucky stood at his side and looked towards the crowd. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” 

“Steve did one hell of a job.” 

“You can say that again. Each opening gets better and better. He was interviewed for an article in the Times.” 

“Wow.” Around him his friends were accomplishing so much and here Brock was tethered to a sinking ship. “That’s so great.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s smile faded and he turned to him. “Are you doing better?” 

“I’m fine,” Brock lied. “Yesterday was just a fluke is all.” 

“So you’re not going to keep seeing him?” Bucky asked, hopeful. 

Brock wasn’t one to lie but he didn’t feel like contributing any ill feelings into the event. “It’s taken care of.” 

It was, in a way. He would do what he always did: internalize it and suffer sleepless nights as he grappled with the fact that Jack was lying in bed with another man. One he loved more than he loved Brock. He blinked as pressure built behind his eyes and smiled. “I saw some pretty good looking pate. I’m going to get some.” 

“Knock yourself out. I’ll find you in a bit.” 

Brock found his way to the refreshment table. An array of amuse bouches, crackers and artisan cheese, fruit, pate, mini tortes, and flutes of champagne. Brock got a scoop of pate and some crackers. He stared at a nude painting of Gloria Mai, an up and coming model in the industry. It was already sold. 

“She’s got a great set of tits.” 

Brock jumped and looked over his shoulder at Natasha who was looking at the painting with a cool regard. “You have a girlfriend.” 

“Who also has a great set of tits.”

“I had no idea you were so crass.” 

“I’m on my third glass of champagne. It’s the Jack business that’s bothering you, isn’t it?” 

Brock’s mood darkened and he scooped more pate onto a sesame cracker and stuffed it into his mouth. “It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing. You used to be lively and now you’re miserable all the time. I don’t understand why you keep doing this to yourself.” 

“I love him.” Brock said bitterly. 

“And he doesn’t love you.” 

Brock’s teeth clicked together in anger and in fear and in pain. Just entertaining the idea that she could be right was a knife to the heart and he couldn’t cope. “Yes he does,” he seethed outwardly and panicked internally. Did he? “You don’t understand.” 

Natasha gave him a searching look and then shrugged. “I guess I don’t. I just wish my friend was as happy as he used to be.” 

“Jack makes me happy.” 

“Okay.” She sipped from her flute. “I’m going to find Wanda. Steve is free now if you want to check in.” 

All Brock wanted to do was to go home and stare at his cellphone. “Thanks.” 

She rested her hand on his shoulder and her heels clicked away. Brock swallowed thickly and blinked the blur of tears from his eyes. 

Jack loved him. He had to. If he didn't, what were they doing? 

** ** ** **

Room 92 was theirs. It was the one Brock had been staying in during that first day they met. It was lying in that bed that Jack told him that he was married and where Brock agreed to the arrangement they had now. One night a week Jack was his. Jack came with a bottle of champagne and greeted him with a kiss. It was fiercely passionate and they bumped against the walls. It was a week of pent up emotion all flowing out into one action. Tears ran down his cheeks wetting both their faces. Jack drew back, cradling his hand in his face, thumbs swiping away the tears. 

“What?” he asked softly, so doting and caring. Brock uttered a sob and Jack drew him in, folding him against his body. “Shh, Brock. I’ve got you.” 

Brock was furious for himself for being so weak, for hitching their time together with his own uncontrollable emotions. He tried in vain to stop crying, fighting against his own reaction. Natasha’s words whispered to him as Jack cradled his body. ‘He doesn’t love you’. Of course he did. He wouldn’t hold him this way if he didn’t. Jack loved him. He had to love him because if not he would suffer a fate worse than his current predicament. Brock couldn’t survive a heartbreak of that caliber. 

“Stay with me,” he croaked. 

“I’m here with you, Brock.” Jack kissed his hairline. “I’m right here baby.” 

“For good,” Brock pled. “Leave him. Stay with me.” 

Jack stilled and then sighed softly. “You know I can’t do that, Brock. You have to share, remember?” 

“I don’t want to share anymore!” Anguish gave way to fury and Brock pushed free. Jack let him go immediately. “I’m sick and tired of sharing you.” 

“Then I think we have a problem.” Jack said patiently. His eyes had hardened up a bit, defensive of the new tone. 

Brock let out a sobbing laugh and he paced the floor. “‘We have a problem’? Three years and now we have a problem? That’s rich.” He turned to face Jack, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Do you even love me or am I just the whore? When you’re with him, do you cum inside or just on his back like you do with me. It’s always the back with the whore, isn’t it Jack?” 

“No one is calling you a whore, Brock.” 

“I’m so stupid. It was right in front of me all this time and I just didn’t want to see it.” 

“Brock -- ”

“No! No, I’m not hearing it. Not anymore. I can’t go on like this. You’re killing me Jack. Every single day we’re apart kills me.” 

“It’s difficult for me too,” Jack assured him. 

“No it’s not.” Brock shook his head furiously. “You don’t know how it is to love someone who doesn’t love you back.” 

“I do love you, Brock. But it’s complicated -- you know it’s complicated.” 

“It doesn’t have to be. I’m going to make it really simple for you.” Brock wiped away his tears though new ones welded up and slipped down his cheeks, flushed with emotion. “It’s him or me.” 

“Brock.” 

“No. It’s him or me. Pick. I can’t do this anymore,” he voice broke and he crumpled to his knees making a keening sound that hardly sounded human. It was an animalistic, a wounded creature crying out for mercy. “I can’t, Jack. I just can’t. Him or me.” 

“Brock,” he slipped off the bed and took his hands. “I love you Brock. I know I don’t say it a lot but it makes the distance harder on me -- on us. But what you’re asking me I can’t do.” 

Brock sobbed. He knew the answer even if Jack couldn’t bring himself to say it. All their stolen moments, their begged and borrowed time, was worthless. Brock himself was worthless. Jack didn’t care for him at all; not in the way that Brock cared for him. “So it’s him then.” he whispered. 

Jack’s eyes clenched shut and when they opened there was no shine of tears, no regret, just anger. “They’re my family. I can’t just up and leave them.” 

“Then up and leave me, Jack. Let me heal.” 

“I don’t want to leave you. Why do I have to pick? I can do two nights a week with you. Three sometimes. I don’t want to lose you Brock. I love you.” 

“I’m done sharing.” Brock was trembling. He wanted to go home, curl under the covers and disappear. “Goodbye Jack.” 

“Brock.” 

Brock rose to his feet and started for the door. Jack grabbed his arm and Brock shook him off turning with a watery glare. “Let me go. We’re done. This…is done.” 

“But I love you,” he looked more panicked now, finally realizing that Brock was actually leaving. Finally he was feeling a hint of what Brock had dealt with for years. It should have been satisfying but seeing any pain in his eyes was doubled inside Brock, especially knowing he had caused it. His voice shook as he said, “Brock, don’t leave me.” 

“If you love me you’ll let me go.” Brock tried to set his jaw. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Jack asked, sounding completely destroyed. 

Part of Brock wanted to rush back into his arms, console him and assure him he’d never leave him. But the other part was stronger. The part of him that told him he had to escape now, while had the chance. It told him that in the end Brock was replaceable and he didn’t doubt he’d find a replacement with ease. It was easy with the way he looked. 

“Go home to your family.” Brock said hollowly. “To Clint and your son.” 

Jack let out a sob but it was dry. Brock wondered if it had ever been real. He put his hand on the doorknob and suddenly there was light at the end of the tunnel. A future where this pain would be nothing but a distant memory. But imaging a world where he didn’t have Jack was painful, even with his determination to leave all the agony behind. But Brock was choosing the lesser of the two evils. 

He turned the knob and closed the door on Jack. 

Another tear broke fear and he wiped it away with his sleeve heading for the car garage. He had a world of hurt above him and his heart would never be the same. But he had saved himself. Brock held that fact, his strength, close. It was all he had left.


End file.
